


Bull x Cullen Prompt Week

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, BDSM, Canon Timeline, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:39:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We're doing a Bull/Cullen prompt week over on <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/search/bullen+week">Tumblr</a>, and these are my entries.  If you've read them on Tumblr, sorry, nothing new here!  Also, if you haven't read them on Tumblr, be aware that my editing on these was definitely not extensive.</p><p>The prompts for each day are as follows, and I'll be tagging each chapter individually:</p><p>1.	Kink Negotiation<br/>2.	Aftercare<br/>3.	Domestic<br/>4.	Voyeur<br/>5.	Meeting the Family<br/>6.	Trespasser<br/>7.	Crossover/AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kink Negotiation (rated T, maybe M? T and a half?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really kink guessing rather than kink negotiation, but ah well.
> 
> Content warning for dubious consent

The problem is that it's a surprise.

When Cullen opened the door to the room above the Herald's Rest, he'd expected to find the Inquisitor. In the back of his mind, he'd been aware that he might find the Iron Bull as well, but he hadn't thought much beyond that, and he certainly hadn't expected to find quite so _much_ of the Iron Bull.

It's a surprise, and that's what burns the sight into his brain.

The conversation that follows is a blur, the whole thing a farce made worse by Cassandra and Josephine, while the Inquisitor lounges on the bed as if there's nothing amiss. As if there isn't a naked qunari stretched out on that same bed. Naked, skin slicked with sweat and-

A farce. It's a farce, and a surprise, and that's why Cullen can't forget it. Embarrassment and shock together have worked like a hot iron, searing the image into him like a convict's brand. And he feels like a criminal worthy of branding: ashamed not of what he's done, but of what he's thought in the weeks since that day. Between the lust and the shame, those thoughts have done wonders to keep him warm at night.

He's avoided the Iron Bull as well as he can, which is a good bit easier than avoiding the Inquisitor. The Inquisition's commander can hardly excuse himself from meetings in the war room, no matter how difficult it is to meet anyone's eyes. The Inquisitor's, for the obvious reason. Leliana's, because she undoubtedly knows exactly what happened, even if she wasn't there. And Josephine's, because it's her words that echo in his head: "Who wouldn't be a little curious?"

Curious is hardly the word for it.

As awkward as it's been, he congratulates himself for hiding his tangled thoughts. No one seems to have noticed, and if there's one thing he can say about every member of the Inquisitor's inner circle, it's that they're not shy about expressing themselves. Even Vivienne would find some subtle way to let him know she knew. If she did know. Which she doesn't, thank the Maker.

Cullen snaps back to the present with a jerk and a guilty look around his empty office. The candle has burned down by a rather embarrassing amount in the time he was staring at the walls remembering the Iron Bull's-

No. No. No.

Letters. He has letters to write, and requisitions to send on to the quartermaster or back to their originators with scathing notes that all come down to, "You must be joking." Doesn't anyone think of the cost before they ask for something? The Inquisition's resources are not limitless, and Cullen is all too aware of that some days.

He's mostly succeeded in immersing himself in his papers when there's a knock on his door. "Come in," he calls distractedly, more interested in whether this is something he can foist off on Josephine than in who's knocking.

The door opens, and the Iron Bull says, "Evening, Commander."

Cullen jumps like he's been scalded, almost knocking his candle onto a stack of papers. The finished stack, of course, so he can't even hope that the accident will provide him with the perfect excuse to "lose" a few of the more annoying letters he has yet to answer.

Fortunately, he catches the candle before it can do any damage, though he does succeed in pouring hot wax all over his fingers. The burn isn't unpleasant, but the tingling it starts under his skin is hardly what he wants to feel with the Iron Bull standing-- _towering_ \--in his office.

The doors are all closed, and the Iron Bull is watching him with a faint smile, and Cullen suddenly finds he can't get enough air.

"Did you need something?" Cullen asks. It's supposed to come out brisk, the Inquisition's commander discussing Inquisition business with one of the Inquisitor's inner circle.

It doesn't. Instead, it comes out shaky and high-pitched, a nervous templar recruit caught stroking himself, by the pretty Chantry mother he was fantasizing about.

"We should talk," the Iron Bull says.

Cullen clears his throat and tries to get his voice down into a register that doesn't sound as if someone has him by the balls. "About anything in particular?"

Bull... _the Iron Bull_ raises his eyebrow. "Is that something you like? You want me to talk about it?"

It takes Cullen a moment to understand, and when he does, he flushes from his head to his toes. "I...what?" His voice hasn't gone high again, thank Andraste for small mercies, but it has gone rough, and that's almost as bad.

"Look," the Iron Bull says, taking a step closer. Cullen barely manages not to step back. "I saw the way you looked at me, and the Boss. You don't want to play, that's fine, but don't pretend you weren't thinking it."

"I don't want to play," Cullen says, all in a rush. His fingers ache where they're wrapped around his belt, and the muscles in his back are so tight they should be snapping like bow strings.

"All right," the Iron Bull says easily.

But rather than leaving, he takes another step forward, his eye never leaving Cullen's face.

"I d-don't want to p-play," Cullen says again. The re-emergence of that ridiculous stutter should annoy him, but he's too busy staring at the Iron Bull, who's stepped forward again and is now pressed against the far side of Cullen's desk. It doesn't feel like a very substantial barrier right now.

"I'm not going to force you," the Iron Bull says. "But if you change your mind, my door's open."

"No, thank you," Cullen says as politely and firmly as he can.

One corner of the Iron Bull's mouth quirks. "That's a shame," he says. "I'll bet you'd look good on your knees."

The words feel much like the wax felt earlier, something that should be unpleasant but instead makes him want to beg for more.

"I can't decide if you'd like being blindfolded," Bull goes on. "Hmmm? Do you want to be able to hide from what I'd do to you, pretend you don't want it?"

Cullen's throat has stopped working completely. His cock, however, is working just fine.

"Or maybe you'd like to watch?" Bull asks. "On your knees with your hands tied, unable to do anything but watch while I fucked the Boss over a table."

The Inquisitor. Yes. That reminder is enough to let him find words, even if his cock is now tenting the front of his breeches. "And what about the Inquisitor?" he asks, with a reasonable approximation of a challenge. He won't help anyone betray a partner, no matter what his body wants.

That challenge gets lost in confusion when Bull laughs. It's a delighted laugh rather than a mocking one, but Cullen scowls anyway.

"Andrastians," Bull says, still chuckling. "You're all so fucking innocent. You think the Boss wouldn't love it, too?"

Cullen inhales sharply, once more at a loss for words.

Bull is grinning, but his one good eye is sharp. "Or maybe I'd fuck you while the Boss watched. Blindfold you and do whatever I wanted, and you'd never know who was in the room with us, if they stayed quiet."

Maybe it's a good thing Cullen can't speak, because the words stuck behind the knot in his throat are mostly "yes" and "please" and "now."

Bull's smile fades until it's only there at the corner of his eye. "Well, there's one idea." Before Cullen can react, Bull leans across the desk and grabs one of his wrists, yanking him forward. While Cullen is still trying to save himself from going face down on his paperwork, Bull picks up the candle and tilts a few drops of wax across Cullen's palm.

Rather than just his throat, now it's his whole body that's frozen in place.

"There's another idea," Bull says, and sets the candle back in its holder. His other hand forces Cullen's fingers into a fist, pressing the still-hot wax harder into his skin.

Then he lets go of Cullen and steps back, hands out to his sides like Cullen would ever make the mistake of thinking him harmless. "And I've got a few more," Bull says. "You decide you want to hear about them, just let me know."

He's gone before Cullen can speak, the door closing gently behind him. Dazed, Cullen finds his chair and settles into it slowly, his fist clenched around the cooling wax.


	2. Aftercare (rated T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for the after-effects of some moderately hardcore BDSM.

The first thing Bull does is build up the fire, feeding it thin branches until the coals flare up into real flames and he can pile thicker logs on top. When the heat is making his skin uncomfortably tight, he wraps a rag around his hand and picks up the clay bowl he left on the hearth at the beginning of the evening.

As he crosses the room, Bull has to smile at Cullen's expression. He looks calm--peaceful, even--a stark contrast to the desperation making him shake when he arrived at Bull's door a few hours ago. He's no longer trying to control the entire world, as if he can do everything that needs to be done on pure force of will. For tonight, he doesn't even have to be in control of himself.

Bull's bad knee pops as he kneels, but he ignores it, setting the bowl on the floor beside the bed. The water is steaming, hot enough to sting his fingers when he dips the rag into it, and he's careful to let it cool a little before he touches it to Cullen's skin to wipe away sweat and tears and blood.

The blood is what Bull worries about. Not because he doesn't understand how grounding pain can be, but because he's always aware of his own strength, and of how fragile humans are. One misjudged blow is all it would take to break...if not Cullen, then at least the trust Cullen places in him. Every strike has to be perfect: perfectly aimed, perfectly timed, perfectly measured. He's more careful here than he is even in battle. After all, no one much cares if he strikes an enemy too hard, so long as it doesn't leave him off balance or poorly positioned to take on the next one.

He wipes away the blood where Cullen bit his lip too hard, and the blood where a few of the welts burst open under the lash, and the blood where the chains cut into his wrists as he fought against them. Bull traded the manacles for leather cuffs, once, and the disappointment on Cullen's face had told him everything he needed to know. He's never done that again, but it's one more thing to be aware of, one more chance for Cullen to be damaged in a way neither of them wants.

"Roll over," Bull says. It's an order, not a request, and he knows there are plenty of people who would hate that. Cullen only blinks slowly and heaves himself onto his stomach, sighing a little as he settles back onto the mattress.

Bull keeps one hand curled around the back of Cullen's neck as he works, pressing firmly enough to remind both of them that he's still the one in charge. Cullen doesn't fight him, not even when he cleans the marks on Cullen's back with deliberate thoroughness.

When he's finished, he drops the rag back into the bowl and runs the hand on Cullen's neck up into his hair. Cullen's head presses back into the touch, and Bull rubs hard against his scalp, digging in with his fingertips until Cullen sighs again and twists away.

"I'm fine," he mumbles without raising his face from the pillow. "You can stop worrying now."

"It's my job to worry," Bull says, only half joking.

"You can do it tomorrow," Cullen says. He still sounds half asleep, but his eyes when he tilts his head to look at Bull are a little too knowing. "What is it you tell me? The worrying will keep."

"Something like that," Bull says. He wants to check everything again, no matter how unlikely it is that he missed something the first time, because he needs to know that he didn't break Cullen every bit as much as Cullen needs to feel like he did.

Except Cullen is holding out a hand to him, fingers curling and uncurling in clear demand, and Bull feels it like Cullen is tugging on a rope attached to the inside of his ribcage. He could resist if he wanted to, but he gives in to it instead, letting himself be pulled into bed, where he can bury his fears under the weight of Cullen's arm across his chest.


	3. Domestic (rated G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU, no content warnings, and not a perfect fit for the prompt; you may have noticed that I have a hard time coercing my stories into going the way they're supposed to go.

Cullen says nothing. Through six hours of sitting around in the emergency room, through getting Krem's nose set and his upper lip stitched, through two rounds of x-rays for Bull's arm and a surprisingly entertaining fight between two radiology techs over whether the shadow on the first image is actually a break in the bone or just one tech doing a shitty job at taking the shot. At least, Bull and Krem find the fight entertaining. Cullen continues to say nothing.

Not that Bull needs words to know Cullen is pissed. It's there in his fingers, clenching into unconscious fists that he then consciously releases. It's there in his jaw, working silently back and forth without his teeth--quite--grinding together. And it's there in the way he looks at everyone except Bull or Krem. He's practically staring at the harried doctor rattling off the list of do's and don’t's for the next few weeks. Bull's never seen anyone make eye contact that intently with someone they weren't trying to intimidate or take home.

Still, if Cullen isn't saying anything, he also isn't saying, "I told you so."

Maybe because he knows Bull would laugh if he did. Not out of any desire to be mean, but just because the whole situation is hysterical, at least as far as Bull and Krem are concerned. Bull is mostly keeping it together by force of will, and a vested interest in not sleeping on the sofa tonight. The broken arm helps, pain radiating up to his jaw in waves that won't stop until they get home and he can take some Percocet. He'd take them now, except that asking Cullen to drag his limp body up the stairs to their apartment would definitely be pushing it tonight.

It's almost two in the morning by the time they're back in the car, and past two thirty before they've dropped Krem off and made it home. Cullen's jaw is still set, but at least he's no longer clenching his fists like he wishes they were around Bull's neck. If it weren't for the flat line of his mouth, his behavior could even be called solicitous as he helps Bull out of the car and up the stairs and into their apartment.

Some of his tension eases once they're in the door, Bull settled on the couch with a cup of water and his bottle of pain killers while Cullen starts the laundry. As if he's somehow going to get the blood out of those towels, seven hours later. Bull's been with him long enough to know better than to say any such thing, of course, especially not tonight.

When the washing machine is humming away to itself, Cullen comes back to lean against the living room doorframe.

"Are you okay?" he asks. They're very nearly the first words he's spoken since his startled, "What the fuck?!" after Bull and Krem smashed into each other and the wall with what Krem described through giggles and a bloody nose as "an earth-shattering kaboom!"

Cullen had not been amused, but Bull had laughed hard enough for both of them despite the pain in his arm.

"Hurts like hell," Bull says now, shrugging his good shoulder carefully. "But I'll be fine."

"Glad to hear it," Cullen says acidly. He shoves away from the wall and crosses the room to hover just inside Bull's personal space.

"You can say it," Bull says. Even he isn't sure if he's hoping to provoke a laugh or a fight. Anything's better than this weighted silence.

"Say what?" Cullen asks.

"'I told you so.'"

"Why would I say that?" His tone is dead level, and that's never a good sign.

"Because you did." Bull reaches out with the hand not currently in a cast and hooks his fingers through one of the belt loops on Cullen's jeans. "And you were right."

Cullen's face is still too stiff, but he lets himself be pulled forward until he's close enough that Bull can rest his forehead against Cullen's stomach. As an added bonus, it also hides the smile Bull is still struggling to contain. It doesn't matter how much his arm hurts, he's never going to regret it.

Well, so long as Cullen forgives him, and there's a pretty good chance he will. Eventually.

One of Cullen's hands comes to rest on Bull's shoulder, his fingers digging in hard. "You scared the shit out of me," he says, and his voice isn't quite so even now.

Bull feels a flash of guilt for the first time. "Sorry," he says. "We might have gotten a little carried away."

"You think?" Cullen asks with a snort. "Like a pair of five-year-olds. Fuck."

"But five-year-olds having fun!" Bull knows he's on thin ice, but he can't resist adding, "Dalish got the most kick-ass pictures."

"Was that before or after Krem's nose met your forehead?"

"Before, of course. Not nearly so good a shot with Krem bleeding all over me."

"Right." Cullen heaves a sigh, but his fingers stop digging into Bull's shoulder like he wants to rip something.

Bull drops his hand down to curl around the back of Cullen's thigh, holding him loosely. "I am sorry we scared you," he says.

"Scared really doesn't cover it," Cullen snaps. Bull's okay with the snapping, though, because as long as Cullen's talking, he's not completely pissed. "All I know is there's this fucking huge crash, and I look up to find both of you screaming and covered in blood."

"We were laughing," Bull objects. "Not screaming."

"I have to tell you, I didn't really stop for analysis once I saw the blood. That kind of thing jumps the forebrain and goes right to instinct."

"I know," Bull says. He presses his forehead harder against Cullen's stomach, ignoring the pain as the bruise grinds against one of Cullen's ribs. "Nose bleeds are just so fucking spectacular."

"I know," Cullen echoes dryly. His hand moves from Bull's shoulder to the back of his neck, squeezing gently. "It just...knocked some memories loose, you covered in blood like that."

And now Bull feels like shit, inside and out, without any desire to laugh. It's been a long time since the drunk assholes and their broken beer bottle, but that doesn't mean either of them has forgotten. Probably didn't help that Krem was here, too, just to make the flashback complete.

"The other eye's fine," he says, trying for a joke, not sure if it will fall flat.

Cullen snorts. The sound is muffled, and Bull thinks maybe he has his other hand over his face, but he doesn't look up to see.

"I'm fine," Bull says, as forcefully as he can. "Really." Then he allows, "Okay, the arm sucks, and it's going to suck for a while, but it's not the worst thing I've ever done to myself."

The only part Bull catches of whatever Cullen says next is "...so fucking stupid..." but he can fill in the rest.

"Yeah," Bull agrees. It really is the only way to describe two grown men sliding around in their socks on a freshly polished floor, deliberately bouncing off each other to get additional momentum. Cullen's dire "somebody's going to get hurt!" had only added to the fun, right up until Bull slipped.

The smile is back, and Bull is glad Cullen can't see his face. It's just hard not to grin, remembering. Dalish really did have good timing with the camera.

"You're not even sorry, are you?" Cullen asks, resigned.

This time, Bull looks up, making sure his sincerity shows. "I'm sorry I scared you."

"That's a shitty apology," Cullen says, but the corner of his mouth is curling in the beginnings of a smile.

"I mean it," Bull says. "If I'd thought it would go tits-up like that, I never would've done it."

Cullen's hand slides up to cup Bull's cheek, thumb resting just under the eyepatch. "Okay," he murmurs. "Okay."

Then he really does smile, pulling out his cell phone with his free hand. He thumbs the screen on one-handed, then holds it so Bull can see himself and Krem "surfing" down the hallway, mirroring each other exactly.

"That is fucking _perfect_ ," Bull says with feeling.

"Kinda," Cullen says. He's shaking his head, but he's also still smiling. "For certain fucked up definitions of perfect."

Bull presses on the back of Cullen's leg until he gives in and straddles Bull's lap, careful of the cast. "You know it's the kind of perfect you like," Bull says.

"Fuck if I know why," Cullen mutters. He leans in to press a kiss to the bruise on Bull's forehead, where Krem's face connected, nose first. "But yeah. The kind of perfect I like."


	4. Voyeur (rated M)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is Bull/Inquisitor, with Cullen as voyeur. Content warning for accidental, nonconsensual voyeurism.

Cullen is intimately familiar with "should." It's a word that's defined his entire life, written into him by his parents and the Chantry, then re-written by his own hand over and over again. If he were to ever lose the ability to speak, sometimes he thinks "should" is the only word that would remain to him.

And right now? Right now, he shouldn't be here. He should turn around and leave, and he should close the door very quietly so as not to call attention to himself. Perhaps he should even post a guard, to save anyone else the embarrassment currently making him sweat under his armor. Certainly the last thing he should do is continue to stand here, papers nearly escaping his loose fingers.

_I knocked,_ he protests silently, though he's not sure who the explanation is for. Himself? The Maker? Certainly the Iron Bull and the Inquisitor remain unaware that an explanation is even needed.

But he did knock, rapping on the Inquisitor's door as loudly and firmly as ever. When he didn't received an answer, he stepped inside the way he has a hundred times before, prepared to leave the papers on the Inquisitor's desk to discuss tomorrow at the war table.

Two steps into the room, he realized that his knock had gone unanswered not because the room was empty, but because its occupants were...well... _occupied_. Very well occupied, if the groans and gasps he can hear are any indication. The stairs rising in front of him block his view of the room, and likewise shield him from being seen, or else this would be a hundred times more embarrassing than it already is.

He should leave. Right now, before anyone else realizes he's here, he should take himself back to his office and forget this ever happened.

He doesn't.

In the room above him, the Iron Bull growls something Cullen can't quite make out, but from the tone it's clear he's praising whatever the Inquisitor is doing. It's followed by a muffled cry, the sort of sound someone might make if their mouth was covered.

Or wrapped around someone else's cock. That image unfolds in front of Cullen's eyes, as clear and detailed as any painting done by a master, then immediately shifts to something more personal: his own lips stretched wide around the Iron Bull's cock, throat working to take all of it, those whispered praises directed at him and what he's doing.

There's another groan--Cullen doesn't know whose--and that finally jolts him into motion. He never made it far enough into the room to even close the door, and so it isn't difficult to escape as soundlessly as a man in full armor can do anything. A small eternity to ease the door closed without letting it bang against the frame, and another to descend the stairs one careful step at a time, testing each board before he puts his weight on it, to be sure it won't creak or pop.

The trip from the main hall to his office is a blur, though at least there are only a few people around at this hour. For the sake of those few witnesses, Cullen holds himself to a walk; Maker only knows what panic it would start, the Inquisition's commander running through Skyhold as if there were demons at his heels.

In his office, he tosses the papers onto his desk and sheds his armor as fast as he can. Habit forces him to pause long enough to hang everything on his armor stand--another should, stronger than the rest--before he climbs the ladder to his bedroom and flings himself down on his bed.

Without his armor and coat, he should be cold, but even as the breeze through the holes in his roof dries the sweat on his skin, he's too hot for it to be anything other than a relief. His hand is like ice when he shoves it into his breeches to grab his cock, and that makes him hiss in surprise without stopping.

Though stopping is what he should be doing. He should stop, and go work on all the papers scattered across his desk, or at least think about something other than sucking the Iron Bull's cock while the Inquisitor looks on.

Should should should.

The word beats in his brain in time with his pulse, and his hand moves faster to match them both. Sword calluses scrape over delicate skin, and it should hurt, he's gripping harder than he normally does, but instead of driving back the heat in his gut, those sharp flashes of pain only fuel it. His free hand covers his mouth, stifling the noises he wants to make as his hips thrust up off the bed, his body moving because he can't control it anymore.

When his release comes, it's like an explosion, white light bursting behind his eyes as his body shakes. His muscles clench until they're trembling, and still his hips jerk up, his mouth open wide beneath his palm, every jolt painful and perfect together.

After his muscles have unlocked and his hand has stopped moving, he lies in bed with his eyes closed and works on breathing evenly. He knows he should get up, clean himself off, return to his desk and his papers. Or if he isn't going to do any more work tonight, he should still get up, clean himself off and strip down. At a bare minimum, he should pull up the blankets before he freezes.

He doesn't.

Instead, for a little while longer, he pretends he's never heard of "should."


	5. Meeting the Family (rated T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern AU
> 
> This is a sorry/not sorry, right on the line between hurt/comfort and hurt/no comfort. If you're not in the mood for angst, I'd skip it!

When Krem arrives, Cullen is awake only by the most generous definition of the word. He's upright, and his eyes are open, and theoretically his brain is still processing information, but he's not one hundred percent sure this isn't all a dream. A nightmare.

But his mother raised him a particular way, so when the door to the hospital room opens, Cullen hauls himself to his feet and holds out his hand. "Krem?" he asks, as if he doesn't know. Bull has pictures of him everywhere, and even if they've never met, Cullen would have been able to pick him out of a lineup months ago.

"Yeah," Krem says, voice pitched barely above a whisper as his eyes jump from Cullen to the still form on the hospital bed. His handshake is automatic, muscle memory rather than intent, and Cullen can watch him cataloguing the IV, the breathing tube, the medical constellation of lights blinking from a variety of machines.

Then his attention returns to Cullen with an embarrassed half smile. "Sorry. You've gotta be Cullen. I'd say nice to meet you, but..." He shrugs, letting his backpack slide off his shoulder and into his hand, without looking at Bull.

Not that he needs to. Cullen's entire world is centered on this room right now, revolving around the steady rise and fall of Bull's chest, the hisses and clicks and beeps of the machinery keeping him alive. The bed might as well be a black hole, for all Cullen's ability to move his attention elsewhere.

"How was the trip?" Cullen asks, the words as automatic as Krem's handshake.

"It sucked," Krem says without heat. For a second, he almost smiles, and he reminds Cullen so strongly of Bull that his throat closes and his eyes burn with the tears he's managed to bury for the last thirty hours.

"You made good time," he says, still unable to move beyond the inane, years of social programming building a wall between his brain and his emotions.

"Would have been better, except there was a pretty bad accident." Krem's face freezes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and Cullen feels pressure in his chest that might be a laugh or might be a scream.

Neither of them looks at Bull.

"How's he doing?" Krem blurts out, his fingers flexing on the strap of his bag.

"They're optimistic," Cullen says, trying to make himself sound anything other than desperate. "But he only came out of surgery an hour ago, so mostly right now it's a lot of waiting."

"Well, I came prepared," Krem says. When Cullen gives him a questioning look, he holds up the bag. "I figured we could play cards or dominos or something. More fun than staring at the wall."

Or at Bull. Cullen's smile is about as real as Krem's, but neither of them comments. "Sounds good," Cullen says. "But I've got a book for tonight," not that he's reading it, but he does have it, "and you've got to be exhausted. You're welcome to crash at our place-"

Cullen chokes on the rest of the sentence. There's only been an "our place" for a few months, and up until now, he's said those words with a kind of pleased surprise that always makes Bull laugh. Made Bull laugh.

 _Makes. Makes_ Bull laugh.

"I thought I'd stay here for a bit," Krem says. His eyes are now avoiding Cullen as carefully as they're avoiding Bull, and Cullen is struck by the sudden, inexplicable urge to laugh. At the current rate, Krem will be stuck looking at nothing except his shoes. "I'm still kinda wound up from the trip."

"There's only the one chair," Cullen points out, waving in the right general direction.

"Oh, I'm good," Krem says. "I've been sitting for twenty hours by now."

Cullen studies him and tries not to frown. At the moment, there's nothing he can do for Bull except take care of Krem, who appears determined to stop him from doing any such thing. Hard to say whether this is more of the not-so-subtle hostility that kept Krem at school over spring break, that sent him off to Europe over the summer and to friends' houses over the fall and Thanksgiving breaks. He'd used the long drive home as an excuse, but the real reason was never in doubt, not for Cullen or Bull.

Frustrating as it's been, Cullen has tried to be understanding, tried not to push Krem or to let Bull push him. Over the last year and a half, he's pieced together the bare bones of Bull's last serious relationship, and as far as he can tell, "train wreck" is the nicest thing anyone can say about it. People like Bull, people whose sense of self is so wrapped up in what they can do for others, will always be susceptible to a particular flavor of manipulation.

So Cullen has gotten used to saying cheerfully, "He'll come around," while Bull frowns at his phone, or at his email. This year's Christmas was still up in the air, but Cullen already has three contingency plans, depending on whether and for how long Krem decided to come home.

All moot now, and Cullen again has to take a deep breath against the pressure in his chest. Laugh or scream. Why are those his only options?

"You should get some sleep," Cullen says at last. "Nothing's going to change over night, and there's no point burning yourself out this early."

Krem's gaze snaps to his, intense and once again too much like Bull's. "How long have you been awake?"

"I slept while he was in surgery," Cullen says. It's not a complete lie.

"In a bed?"

"I slept," Cullen repeats forcefully. "You haven't." He almost adds that Bull would want Cullen to take care of Krem, but he bites his tongue. There's no twenty-year-old on the planet who can hear that without bristling, and the last thing Cullen wants is to have a fight with Bull's son over Bull's hospital bed.

Cullen almost laughs again, because a fight with Krem isn't quite the last thing he wants. If he thought it would bring Bull back, he'd gladly have a screaming match with Krem right here and now.

"When did you last eat?" Krem presses.

He's like a miniature version of Bull, and it hurts too much, which is the only excuse Cullen has for the way he snaps, "Don't you fucking dare."

Krem jerks back, his mouth opening on something angry.

Before he can let it out, Cullen says, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

There's a moment where he thinks they're not going to be able to recover from this, that they really are going to scream at each other at four in the morning in the middle of a hospital.

Then Krem nods once, stiffly. "It's okay."

"It's not," Cullen says quietly, "but thanks. It's been a long day."

Krem snorts out a laugh, and while it, too, is a reminder of Bull, this one doesn't hurt quite so much. "Yeah."

They stand in awkward silence for almost a minute, neither of them willing to look at each other or at Bull, before Krem asks tentatively, "When _did_ you last eat?"

"I had a sandwich a couple hours ago," Cullen says. He doesn't think it's a lie, though if Krem demands details of the alleged meal, Cullen may be in trouble. "I'm fine."

He makes himself look up at Krem, who's now chewing on his lower lip with a frown of intense concentration, and asks, "When did _you_ last eat?"

"Huh? Oh, I hit a drive-through when I got off the interstate. I'm good for a couple hours. College student, right? I'm used to staying up all night."

Cullen smiles, and it feels strange. "Sleep is good for you, you know."

"I know." Krem meets his gaze squarely, his jaw tensing. "Which is why you should go home and get some. He'd want you to take care of yourself."

That's such a low blow it leaves Cullen breathless.

While he's still trying to recover, Krem rushes on. "Just, like...five hours. We can trade off at ten." Which is six hours away, not five, but Cullen doesn't have enough air to point that out. "You can bring breakfast when you come back, and I promise, after that I'll go back to your place...home...I'll go home and sleep."

Cullen shuts his eyes and drags in a slow, deep breath. He's been awake almost forty-eight hours at this point--because his "nap" while Bull was in surgery mostly involved huddling in a chair and praying the way he hasn't since he was a teenager--and he's so tired he's not even sure he can drive himself home.

"The nurses can call a cab," Krem says. "'Cause I know you old people don't like Uber."

Later, Cullen will never be able to say why, but that's what breaks him. He just starts to laugh, and then he can't stop, while Krem stares at his shoes and says nothing about the fact that some of his gasps for air sound a lot like sobs.

When he's got himself mostly under control again, Cullen wipes his face on his sleeve. "Okay, you win. I'll be back at ten."

"With breakfast," Krem says. "Because hospital food sucks."

Cullen feels the laughter bubbling up again, and stomps on it hard. He's not sure he'll be able to stop, if he starts again.

He considers hugging Krem, then decides not to push his luck and sticks with squeezing one of his shoulders instead. "Text me what you want to eat, and I'll see what I can find."

"Deal," Krem says, already moving past him to take the chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: If you're giving me the sad-puppy eyes for ending on this note, here! [Have a sequel!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5851960)


	6. Trespasser/Post-Game (G, no spoilers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No content warning on this one, unless it's to warn you that I do something I almost never do, which is fade to black on the sex.

"We'll never get back to Skyhold at this rate," Bull says, half laughing, and Cullen turns to glare at him.

"This isn't funny," he snaps, because it isn't. Stuck in a tiny cabin in the middle of the Storm Coast, with no one and nothing for miles. His desk is likely buried by now, and it will take him weeks to deal with everything that's piled up in his enforced absence. What in Andraste's name made the Inquisitor think this was a good idea?

When he'd walked into his office to find his desk completely bare, his first thought was that Sera was playing another prank on him. Except it had been the Inquisitor, and Cullen wasn't laughing.

"You need rest," he'd been told. "And you won't get it here."

"But I have work to do," he'd protested. "Corypheus may be dead, but we still-"

"We'll manage for a few weeks without you. I expect to see you on a horse at dawn tomorrow, and don't come back until you've relaxed a little."

That order had been repeated in Bull's hearing the next morning, as Cullen checked their packs and the map one last time, and Bull had laughed. "I'll make sure he relaxes," Bull had said, and Cullen had flushed to the roots of his hair.

Not that they've done much of anything since leaving Skyhold. The roads were a mess--because what could anyone expect from the Storm Coast--and they'd arrived last night with only enough energy to fall into bed and sleep. Cullen had been up before dawn, pacing the cabin with occasional pauses to glare at the rain beating against the windows. How long does he have to stay, before he can convince the Inquisitor to let him return to his duties?

_"Don't come back until you've relaxed."_ As if he can relax when he knows how much work he should be doing right now.

Across the room, Bull stretches, hands and feet reaching for the edges of the bed, his back arching to lift his hips off the mattress. It's moderately distracting, even knowing it's deliberate, and Cullen lets his eyes follow the line of Bull's arm down to his chest, his stomach, his legs, then back up.

By the time his eyes return to Bull's face, Bull is smiling at him, and there's more than a hint of invitation in that smile. When Cullen smiles back, half unwillingly, Bull climbs out of bed to cross the room to him.

The room is small, and Bull isn't, and it only takes him three strides to back Cullen up against the wall, a hand on either side of his head. Cullen's breath catches, and paperwork is no longer at the forefront of his thoughts.

"You've got your orders," Bull says, still smiling. "And I've got mine. You wouldn't want to set me up to disappoint the Boss, would you?"


	7. Crossover/AU (rated T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College AU
> 
> Content warning for underage (sort of). Cullen, Bull, and Isabela are twenty-one; Dorian is seventeen. Nothing happens except a lot of ogling, but if that’s going to bother you, I would skip this one.

Bull stops without warning, and Cullen runs right into him, bouncing off the broad planes of his back with an "oomph!" of protest. His football helmet, swinging loosely from his grasp, almost goes flying, and he barely catches it in time.

"What-?" he starts to ask, leaning around Bull to see what's going on, and then he sees the answer for himself and forgets to close his mouth.

The track team is just finishing up their practice, doing their cooldown as the football team is trickling in to do their warmups. In the late August heat, nearly everyone is in shorts, a good half of them shirtless, and while there are any number of people Bull could be looking at, Cullen knows exactly which one caused him to stop dead.

He's new, young enough that he almost has to be a freshman rather than a transfer, despite the ridiculous mustache currently running a little wild in the heat and humidity. That he's on the varsity track team his freshman year says something about how good he is, but the lean muscles under his brown skin say even more. The runner's shorts he's wearing leave very little to the imagination, and Cullen has trouble looking away from the sweat running down his bare chest.

"Wipe your chins, boys," Isabela says dryly from behind him, and Cullen jumps guiltily, closing his mouth so fast his teeth click together. "He's not on the market."

Bull only laughs and turns to face her. "Can we have him when you're done with him?"

"Pervert," she says, slapping his arm. "He's not mine. He's _seventeen_."

Cullen flushes with real guilt this time, suddenly feeling like the pervert Isabela named Bull. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. And too smart for you boys, anyway." She tosses her dark hair over her shoulder and smirks at them, canting her hip to one side in a way that Cullen finds deeply distracting.

"So is this you calling dibs or what?" Bull teases. "He'll be eighteen sooner or later."

It would make Cullen uncomfortable, if he thought Bull was serious, but he's spent enough time around Bull and Isabela to recognize their teasing for what it is. Which doesn't stop the blush from creeping a little farther down his chest.

"As if," Isabela says with a snort. "Seventeen or twenty-seven, he's not interested in me, I can tell you that."

"You can?" Cullen asks. His gaydar has always been for shit, and if he hadn't watched Bull call it correctly on at least twenty different occasions, he'd suspect the whole idea was mythical.

" _I_ can," Isabela says, giving him a pitying look. "You'll just have to take my word for it."

"Or not," Cullen points out. "Since it doesn't matter anyway, since he's seventeen."

"Rutherford!" Coach bellows from the sidelines, and Cullen's head snaps around. "Ferreus! Stop running your mouths and get your asses over here."

"Duty calls, boys," Isabela says, patting Cullen on the chest, just to see him blush harder.

All right, Cullen doesn't _know_ that's why she did it, but he wouldn't put it past her, given the smirk she's currently wearing.

Bull's grinning too, but he slings an arm around Cullen's shoulders and shakes a finger in her direction. "Hey now, leave my boy alone."

"That's not what you said on Saturday," she purrs, and between embarrassment and that reminder, Cullen is now very sure that every inch of his skin is currently on fire.

Bull just laughs again and tries to grab Isabela without letting go of Cullen, but she dodges him gracefully. "If you want an encore," she says, "I demand dinner. And none of those lame brass-and-ferns places, either."

As if either Bull or Cullen can afford the kind of places Isabela likes to eat. "I can cook you din-" Bull starts, only to be interrupted by another, more-impatient bellow from Coach.

Isabela darts off toward the other cheerleaders, laughing evilly, and Cullen tries not to shift too uncomfortably. Even after three years, he's still not used to Bull's casual attitude toward public displays of affection, and he has to fight the urge to look guiltily toward the rest of their teammates. Where Cullen grew up, guys got a beating for what Bull's doing right now.

Not that Bull's really in much danger. Even if he wasn't head and shoulders taller than anyone else on the team, people just like him. He's one of the few people Cullen's met who can get along with almost anyone, without being some kind of social chameleon. It's a trick Cullen would love to master on his own, but for the most part, he's content to let Bull's charm cover both of them.

"Quit grabbin' ass!" Coach shouts, and Bull deliberately reaches down to swat Cullen's ass before pushing him in the direction of the team.

There's a couple obnoxious jokes and some rude suggestions from the other guys as they start putting on their gear, but nothing any different than if one of them had been a girl. Which is another thing Cullen is still trying to get used to. A nice thing, but still weird.

He's reaching for his shoulder pads, the other guys absorbed in teasing someone else now, when Bull leans close enough to whisper, "I'm going to fuck you so hard after practice."

Cullen keeps his head down, aware that his blush probably tells anyone looking at him what Bull's saying.

"And while I'm doing that," Bull goes on, his breath warm on Cullen's neck, "you're going to think about the new guy sucking your dick."

"He's _seventeen_ ," Cullen hisses back, trying to keep his voice from squeaking.

Bull chuckles. "I didn't say we were actually going to do it, just that you were going to be thinking about it." Bull hums meditatively. "I'll bet that mustache tickles."

It turns out that it's actually kind of painful, wearing an athletic cup over a hard-on. Not painful enough to be a self-correcting problem, unfortunately.

Three years on, Cullen is learning not to be embarrassed by the things he wants. And he's known for years that Bull has his own arcane standards for who he will and won't fuck, standards that once included turning down a twenty-four-year-old as "not old enough." Still, seventeen...

"No," Cullen says, as firmly as he can. "You can make Isabela dinner."

"You buying the ingredients?" Bull asks, grinning and apparently unconcerned to have his original proposal shot down.

Cullen thinks about last Saturday and blushes all over again, his cup getting that much more uncomfortable. "Sure," he says, as casually as he can.

By the look Bull gives him, he's not fooling anyone.


End file.
